by Kenneth Eade
The deposition of Sergeant William Brown promised to be a most difficult one. The deposition took place inside a conference room at Camp Delta, the likes Brent had never seen before at Camp 7. It had a classic wooden conference table, with padded chairs, an American flag, of course, and pictures of George W. Bush and Dick Cheney on the walls.
Brown was represented by a JAG naval officer, as well as the Assistant U.S. Attorney from the DOJ’s Los Angeles office, Timothy Nagel, a wiry looking young nerd with 70’s style glasses and a baggy suit, whom Brent supposed was going to be more of a challenge than he looked.
The festivities started right away, when Brent and Rick sat down across from Brown.
“Who is this man?” asked Nagel.
“This is my investigator,” replied Brent.
“He can’t be in here.”
“Okay, let’s break and go to Los Angeles to hear a motion on your protective order. See you back here tomorrow. Deposition adjourned.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. I guess it’s okay,” Nagel relented.
The deposition of Brown proved to be all that Brent thought it would. He was well coached, and instructed not to answer questions that were considered “classified.” His testimony was, for the most part, given in a dry, emotionless monotone. However, when Brent went into unchartered territory, the fishing got a little bit better.
“Sergeant Brown, is there an operating procedure for processing new detainees at Camp 7?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you trained on those procedures?”
“There is manual of standard operating procedures.”
“Mr. Nagel, will you agree to produce the manual without a motion?”
“It’s classified.”
“Was Mr. Khury processed as a new detainee at Camp 7 in accordance with the standard operating procedure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And can you describe his processing?”
“Objection, irrelevant.”
“Go ahead, Sergeant,” said Brent.
“Counsel, this isn’t relevant to your wrongful death claim.”
“It may lead to the discovery of admissible evidence, so I’m entitled to it. Are you instructing him not to answer? Shall we break for a motion to compel?”
“No, but I reserve the right to do so, depending on the question.”
“Fair enough. Sergeant Brown, please describe the procedure of how Mr. Khury was processed as a new detainee.”
“Well, upon arrival, he was cleaned, his clothes disposed of, personal property bagged and accounted for, earmuffs and black boxes removed for return to the Air Force, and hand and ankle shackles replaced with our standard issue.”
“What was the next step of processing?”
Brown looked at Nagel, and at the JAG for any disapproval, and, seeing none, continued.
“He was then cleaned, his hair cut, and was strip searched.”
“Did this include a body cavity search?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then what?”
“The next step of processing was to implement a Phase One Behavior Management Plan as directed by the JIG.”
“What is the JIG?”
“Joint Interrogation Group.”
“What did you do to implement the Phase One Behavior Management Plan on Mr. Khury?”
“First, he was given his basic comforts-only package.”
“What was in the basic comforts-only package?”
“An ISO mat, one blanket, one towel, one roll of toilet paper, toothpaste and a finger toothbrush, one Styrofoam cup, one bar of soap, a copy of the camp rules, and a Koran.”
“What kind of contact was allowed Mr. Khury during Phase One of his behavior management plan?”
“No contact.”
“Not even the International Red Cross?”
“No, sir.”
“What if he had a medical problem?”
“He didn’t.”
“Was he given access to reading material?”
“No, sir.”
“How long did Phase One last?”
“Two weeks.”
“Was there a Phase Two of behavior management?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did Phase Two consist of?”
“Phase Two was a program to isolate Mr. Khury and foster his dependence on the interrogators.”
“How was that done?”
“By exploiting his sense of disorientation and disorganization.”
“And who was the interrogator?”
“Objection, that is classified,” said Nagel.
“Join,” said the JAG.
“I intend to schedule an Order to Show Cause why the identity of the interrogator be kept secret, and an order allowing me to depose him,” said Brent.
“Go ahead,” said Nagel. “It’s classified.”
“How was he isolated?”
“He was kept in an isolation cell in the MSU.”
“With no windows?”
“Correct.”
“What is the MSU?”
“Maximum Security Unit.”
“Was the cell lit?”
“As needed.”
“What does that mean?” asked Brent.
“It was lit per the instructions of the JIG.”
“Was Mr. Khury subject to long periods of blackout?”
“What do you mean by blackout, sir?”
“Long periods of time with no light in his isolation cell.”
“I don’t remember.”
“How long was Mr. Khury in isolation?”
“Four weeks.”
“Was Mr. Khury classified as a non-privileged enemy combatant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By whom?”
“The JIG.”
“What is your definition of torture, Sergeant Brown?”
“That which inflicts serious pain, likely to be experienced by great bodily injury, such as the destruction of an organ.”
“Is that definition something you made up yourself?”
“No, sir. It’s SOP.”
“Standard Operating Procedure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know what waterboarding is, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was Mr. Khury ever waterboarded?”
“No, sir,” said Brown, furrowing his brows.
“Do you know what dry-boarding is?”
“Yes, sir,” said Brown, tensing up.
“Was Mr. Khury ever dry-boarded?”
“No, sir,” he replied, blinking and scratching his nose.
***
“That motherfucker’s lying,” said Rick, after the day long deposition, as they soothed their tattered nerves with a couple of brews at O’Kelly’s Irish Pub with their favorite escort Colonel Peppard looking on from the end of the bar.
“About what?”
“Waterboarding. Did you see him furrow his brows?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Alone, that micro-expression is not foolproof, but he also moved his eyes from up and to the right.”
“And when he talked about dry-boarding, he went into a blinking fit.”
“I noticed that.”
“We’ve got the nurse tomorrow. That’s when I’m really gonna need your lie detection skills.”
“You can count on it.”
As they spoke, Corporal Reeding bellied up to the bar. Brent waved to him, and he waved back. Corporal Reeding approached Peppard, and Rick and Brent came closer for introductions.
“I hope he’s treating you well, Mr. Marks,” said Reeding.
“He is, Corporal. Very well. This is my investigator, Rick Penn.
Penn put out his hand to Reeding, who took it with a firm grip.
“Good to meet you,” said Reeding, then went back to pick up his beer at the other end of the bar.
Back at the tent, Brent and Rick were provided for their overnight stay, Rick opened his hand to show what Corporal Ree
ding had secretly pressed into it. He pointed to it and gave the “shh” sign with his finger.
Brent unfolded the paper and they both read, I need to speak with you, but it’s impossible to do here. Will be on leave starting next week in Miami. Too dangerous to use phones. Can you meet me at the Colony Hotel in South Beach on Monday at 2100 hrs?
“It just keeps getting weirder and weirder.” said Brent. Since they didn’t feel free to speak about this latest event, Rick kept the note for safekeeping, to be discussed as soon as they were away from the base.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The deposition of James Benson, the U.S. Navy nurse, was a rehearsed set of “I don’t recalls.” It was not very helpful, but interesting nevertheless because he was sweating profusely and looked very uncomfortable in his seat.
“Are you feeling alright, Nurse Benson?” asked Brent.
“Yes, sir. I’m fine. I’ve never been through this procedure before.”
“You understand, I’m not here to trick you –just to find out what you know about the case— don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were the nurse who last fed Mr. Khury before his suicide, is that correct?”
“Yes sir.”
Nurse Benson went through the procedure used for the feeding, including the restraint of Ahmed, and the preparation of his feeding tube.
“Was the feeding tube lubricated?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With what?”
“Olive oil. That was his choice.”
“Is olive oil an approved lubricant for enteral feeding?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By whom is it approved?”
“By my command, by SOUTHCOM.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I asked the detainee what flavor of Ensure he wanted.”
“You mean, you asked Mr. Khury that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did that make sense to you, Nurse Benson, that if the product was being delivered straight to his stomach, how would he be able to taste it?”
“We were required to give him the choice.”
“I see. Then what happened?”
“I asked him if he wanted to play a video game during the procedure.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“Did you expect him to?”
“Many of the detainees ask to play video games.”
“What did you do next?”
“I inserted the lubricated feeding tube into his nostril and then commenced the feeding,” said the nurse, as he wiped sweat from his brow. He looked flushed.
“Were there any complications?”
“No, sir.”
“Did Mr. Khury complain about anything?”
“Yes, sir. He said the tube felt strange, but they always say that.”
“They always say that?”
“Yes, sir.” The nurse gulped, then nodded.
“Did he say why it felt strange?”
“No, but he did cough up the tube.” The nurse smacked his dry lips, and then cleared his throat.
“Does that happen often?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then what happened?”
“The detainee was taken back to his cell.” The nurse leaned back in his chair, fidgeting.
“By whom?”
“Sergeant Brown.”
***
In the break, Rick consulted with Brent in the men’s room.
“He’s lying.”
“About what?”
“Everything except the choice of flavors and olive oil.”
“He did look a bit flustered.”
“A bit flustered? Dude, it was like you were force-feeding him!”
***
After the break, Brent went straight for the kill. He wasn’t going to get anything from this witness, so the best he could do was try to show that he was lying, and to plant the seed of the truth in the jurors’ minds.
“Nurse Benson, do you know of the term, ‘aspiration?’”
Benson fidgeted in his seat and scratched at his neck.
“Yes, sir.”
“You know that Mr. Khury was found dead the day after his enteral feeding, do you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Isn’t it true, Nurse Benson that, during his enteral feeding, Mr. Khury aspirated his liquid Ensure?”
“No, sir,” said Benson, going for a glass of water and sipping it, hands shaking like an 80-year-old with Parkinson’s.
“Isn’t it true, sir, that Mr. Khury became unconscious during his feeding?”
“No, sir.” The beads of sweat were popping out on Benson’s forehead as if he had been in a sauna for half an hour.
“Isn’t it true, sir that you attempted to revive Mr. Khury, and were unsuccessful?”
“No sir!” Benson answered, raising the volume of his voice.
“And that Mr. Khury died in the feeding chair?”
“No sir!”
“You checked for his pulse, didn’t you Nurse Benson?”
“Objection, asked and answered,” said Nagel.
“No sir!”
“It’s not your fault, Benson, but you do have to tell the truth,” Brent insisted.
“Objection argumentative!”
“Tell the truth Benson, or you’ll never be able to live with yourself!”
“I am telling the truth!”
“There is no question pending,” said Nagel. I’m instructing the witness to say no more to this line of questioning.”
“Join,” said the JAG.
“Oh, I’m not finished yet,” said Brent.
“Who removed Mr. Khury from the feeding chair?”
“Corporal Reeding and Sergeant Brown,” said Benson.
“When did Sergeant Brown come in?”
“He was called by Corporal Reeding?”
“What for?”
“Calls for speculation,” said the JAG.
“Corporal Reeding became nervous when the detainee coughed out the feeding tube.”
“The detainee had a name, didn’t he Benson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does it make you feel better, calling him “the detainee” instead of by name, like a human being?”
“The witness will not answer that question,” instructed Nagel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Corporal Brian Reeding’s deposition proved to be a bit smoother than the others. But what he was not telling festered on Brent like a mosquito bite that you can’t stop scratching. Reeding’s body language was point-on, according to Rick. So what could he be hiding?
“What compelled you to call Sergeant Brown during Mr. Khury’s feeding?”
“Mr. Khury was complaining that the feeding tube was hurting him and he subsequently coughed up the tube.”
“Did you think that he might be in danger?”
“I thought he might be, yes, sir.”
“And how many of these force-feedings had you been present at before this one?”
“Objection to the characterization of the feeding as a force-feeding,” said the JAG.
“It was a new detail for me, so not that many, but enough that this one made me alarmed.”
“And what happened after Brown arrived?”
“He cleared the room.”
“What do you mean by ‘cleared the room?”
“He sent my team out.”
“Including you?”
“Yes.”
“And what did your team do?”
“Sergeant Brown ordered the team to secure the next detainee for feeding.”
“And Nurse Benson and Sergeant Brown remained in the feeding room?”
“Yes, sir.”
On cross-examination, Nagel did his best to destroy the credibility of Corporal Reeding.
“Corporal, you testified that this was a new detail for you, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And isn’t it true that you
have no medical background?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you don’t know that Mr. Khury was in danger when you observed him coughing up the feeding tube, isn’t that correct?”
“He looked like he was.”
“But you can’t say for a fact that he was in any kind of a bodily crisis as a result of the procedure, isn’t that correct?”
“No sir, I can’t.”
“And isn’t it true that Mr. Khury told you that he wanted to die?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many times did you hear him say that?”
“Several times.”
***
The depositions of the feeding team were like playing back the dry recorded voices of a computer using a synthetic speech system. No emotion, no body language, like each one of them had been as programmed as they had been desensitized to the entire force-feeding process. Yes, they had seen many detainees complain about the procedure. Yes, they had seen many of them cough up vomit and blood and still live to tell about it. The entire exercise at trial would come down to the credibility of Brown and Benson as witnesses, and the battle of Dr. Orozco v. the military doctor who would be called as an expert.
Brent and Rick left Gitmo on this note, a bit dejected, but still determined to keep up the fight. The unknown lay ahead, and they were dedicated to making as much of it known as they could.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Being in South Beach, Miami was like stepping back in a time machine to the Art Deco 1950’s. It was hot during the day, and equally hot at night, blazing with the neon that the Las Vegas Strip had long forgotten. At 9 p.m., the strip was just warming up, with diners packed in the sidewalk cafés in front of the boutique hotels, being hounded by homeless graduates selling red roses wrapped individually in cellophane and street musicians singing Besame Mucho and La Bamba.
Brent and Rick found Corporal Reeding sitting at a corner table in front of the Colony Hotel, dressed in his Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt, sipping on a margarita on the rocks. After the mandatory round of handshaking, Rick and Brent joined him.
Smalltalk was cut short by curiosity, however, and, for Brent, every additional second of waiting seemed like an excruciating hour.
“You said you wanted to talk to us,” said Brent.
